Just A Glimpse
by PollyVictorian
Summary: Pre-series. Scott and Murdoch have a chance to meet. Will either have the courage to make the first move? [Note:this story co-ordinates with Long Delayed and A Tangle in Abilene, but will stand alone.]


"Murdoch!" The owner of the Lancer ranch turned as he heard his name called. Thomas Selbridge and another man were coming towards him, weaving their way through the press of cattlemen who had flocked to the national convention in Chicago and on this Saturday evening were indulging in drink, food and talk in the Massasoit House hotel.

"Murdoch, I'd like you to meet Major Kendal. Murdoch Lancer," Selbridge completed the introduction. Murdoch extended his hand politely then recognition and a beaming smile flashed across his face.

"Major Kendal! How are you? Good to see you again," he pumped the other man's hand.

"And you, Mr Lancer," Kendal enthused, equally delighted.

"You know each other already, then?" Selbridge queried.

"Why yes," Murdoch replied. "Although it's many years since we saw each other last. Must be twenty years, I think," he stated.

"About that, yes," the Major concurred. "Although as it happens, I met a young relative of yours earlier this year in Abilene – Scott Lancer. Joseph McCoy introduced us. He would be a nephew of yours?"

"Scott is my elder son," Murdoch told him, hoping no sign of shock gave him away.

"Really? McCoy didn't say that, just said he was a connection of yours," Kendal explained. "And you only had one son that time I visited the Lancer ranch."

"Scott was with his grandfather in Boston when you visited," Murdoch clarified. Then, and all the years since, he thought bitterly.

"Well, it's good to see the next generation staying in the cattle trade, as I told him then. How did his negotiations with McCoy go, by the way? Are you going to be shipping cattle to the East, now the Transcontinental Railroad is finished?"

"No, I don't think so, not in any great number anyway," Murdoch Lancer told him. His mind was whirling. Scott in dealings with Joseph McCoy, the cattle shipper? What was that all about? Surely Harlan Garrett wasn't going into the cattle business? Then his common sense asserted itself. There was more to McCoy's business than just the cattle. Most likely the Garretts – because after all, Scott was a Garrett for all intents and purposes – were involved in the railroad side of it. But Kendal was going on.

"These railroads are certainly making a difference to things nowadays, as I said to your boy." He laughed. "Here's even my old self tripping around the country. I came up by train from Topeka – first time in one of the contraptions. I have to admit, it was remarkably comfortable, and one can't deny the convenience of such speed. Still, I think I'll stick with a good horse and carriage for my own travel. Transporting cattle, though, that's another thing, that I'm perfectly happy with…" to Murdoch's relief, the conversation shifted to cattle – transporting, breeding, buying, selling: all the usual talk that came with cattlemen gathering together. He didn't want to have to answer questions about his son – either of his sons.

Moreover, he found himself experiencing a surge of jealousy – totally unreasonable, he knew, but as Selbridge and the Major kept talking all he found himself thinking of was that Kendal had seen Scott, spoken to him: knew more about him, in a way, than Murdoch did. Although he had followed his son's life as best he could, mostly through Boston newspaper society columns, he didn't even know what his grown son looked like – but Kendal did. He was glad, though ashamed of himself for being glad, when the Major said,

"Do excuse me, gentlemen, I'm off for some fresh air. Too much time indoors doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. I feel the need for a little constitutional. I'll see you all tomorrow, no doubt."

"Good night, Major," Murdoch nodded politely and dragged his attention back to Thomas Selbridge's long-winded dissertation on the respective merits of Shorthorns and Longhorns. Somehow, cattle talk wasn't holding his interest tonight.

* * *

Scott and Julie waited outside the Tremont Hotel for their cab. Julie's father had decided not to go along to the theater with them. He was finding this trip to Chicago fatiguing and Scott was worried about him.

Arthur Dennison's first idea had been to have his son accompany him but Scott had persuaded him that it would be better if Perry's studies weren't interrupted and had offered to accompany him instead. It wasn't that Scott thought a week or two away from Harvard would seriously impact Perry's studies, even if Perry was actually doing any studying; simply that he didn't think the boy's presence would be of any use to his father unless Mr Dennison wanted a full and detailed report of every fashionable tailor in Chicago. He had a genuine liking and respect for his future father-in-law and was happy to be of some help to him. And it was not as if Scott had anything particular to do in Boston. Julie had insisted on coming along too – to keep them out of mischief, she declared, but Scott knew that concern for her father was behind it.

"Mr Lancer!" Scott looked around in surprise. Who here in Chicago would be calling him Lancer? He didn't immediately recognize the middle-aged man who had addressed him; must be someone from the army but he couldn't put a name to the face.

"How splendid to see you again. Here for the cattlemen's convention, of course," the man continued. Cattlemen's convention? Scott floundered for a moment then the words gave him the clue he needed.

"Major Kendal, how are you, sir?" Scott turned to the young woman beside him. "Julie, this is Major Kendal. My fiancée, Miss Julie Dennison," he introduced the two.

"Pleased to meet you, Major Kendal," Julie extended her hand, at the same time giving Scott an odd look out of the corner of her eye.

"Delighted, Miss Dennison," the Major bowed, smiling. "Mr Lancer is a lucky man." He turned to Scott again. "Your father didn't mention you were here as well when I met him earlier. More talk of cattle than people – always the way at these affairs."

"Yes, indeed," Scott said noncommittally, hoping no sign of shock gave him away. He was saved from the need of further comment by a cab pulling up in front of them.

"Here's our cab. Do excuse us, Major, we're just off to the theater," Scott nodded a polite farewell as the driver opened the door.

"Of course, of course. Much more pleasant way to spend the evening than listening to a crowd of cattlemen talk shop. I may see you again. Good evening, Miss Dennison." The Major tipped his hat to Julie and walked off.

As the cab rolled off in the direction of the theater, Julie turned to Scott with a puzzled look.

"What was that all about? Why was he calling you by another name? And what was that about your father – I thought your father was dead?"

"No, my father is alive and well. He owns a cattle ranch in California," Scott told her. "Major Kendal is a cattleman himself; I met him when I was in Abilene with your brother last spring. Everyone in Abilene knows me as Scott Lancer, of course, from when I was posted there with the cavalry."

"But your name is Garrett," Julie objected. "You're Harlan Garrett's grandson."

"No, my name is Lancer. My grandfather is my mother's father; I thought you knew that. My father's name is Murdoch Lancer and my full name is Scott Garret Lancer. That's the name I served under in the army." He frowned a little. He had taken it for granted that Julie knew his name and family. Certainly her father did but he realized now that Julie herself could well have never heard his legal name. In Boston society he had always been a Garrett.

"Well, I hope you don't intend to use such an outlandish name in the future," Julie snapped. "I've never heard of it and I certainly have no wish to be Mrs Lancer."

"But you will be," responded Scott.

"I'm engaged to Scott Garrett, not Scott Lancer," she retorted.

"You're engaged to me. Isn't that what counts? Don't you want my name?" Scott was startled and a little disturbed at her words.

"Not if it's some strange name no-one in Boston has ever heard of," she declared with a toss of her head.

"It's my name," Scott said quietly. "That should be enough."

Julie was silent for a moment. She was no fool and she had heard the steel in her fiancé's voice beneath the perfect courtesy. Lancer or Garrett, he was still Harlan Garrett's grandson and one of the best catches in Boston. It would be stupid to risk an argument. She waited for his annoyance to cool then tried another tack.

"It's strange that I've never met your father," she remarked.

"I've never met him myself," Scott told her.

"What?"

"I told you he lives in California. He's never made the trip to Boston to see me and never invited me to go see him. I've never even had a letter from him." Scott told the story matter-of-factly. He didn't allow the touch of bitterness it aroused in him to reach his voice.

"Didn't you ever write to him?" Julie queried.

"Yes, but I got no answer." A shadow passed over his face. Even after almost ten years, it still hurt.

"Major Kendal said he was here in Chicago," Julie ventured cautiously.

"Yes, so he did," Scott acknowledged.

"Are you going to see him?" she asked.

"I don't think there'd be any point," Scott kept his voice steady once again.

Julie was relieved. A cattle rancher! She didn't want word to get around in Boston that she was marrying into a cattle rancher's family. No wonder Harlan Garrett had kept his grandson's background quiet.

Scott saw little of the play that evening although his eyes were on the stage through the entire performance. The scenario running through his mind claimed all his attention.

Murdoch Lancer was here in the same city. If he wanted to, there was the real possibility of seeing his father. He could find him easily enough, there was no doubt about that. Probably the manager of their hotel would know where the cattlemen's convention was being held. But it was true what he had said to Julie – there would be little point in doing so. Murdoch Lancer had no interest in his son; had never answered his letters; had shown no desire to be a part of his life. Scott didn't even know what his own father looked like.

* * *

At breakfast at the Massasoit the next morning, Murdoch Lancer was joined by Major Kendal. He returned the Major's "Good morning" with a genuine pleasantness. His shock at Kendal's revelation the previous evening had subsided and so had the resentment, to his own relief. After all, it was hardly the Major's fault that he'd happened to run into Scott. And it was interesting that Scott called himself Lancer. All the Boston newspapers referred to Scott Garrett when they mentioned his social doings but Murdoch felt a certain satisfaction hearing that his son used his name – pointless as he knew that satisfaction was.

"Your son not down yet?" asked the Major after the initial greetings. "Oh, I'm being foolish. He'll have had breakfast long since and gone out, I suppose. That's a hazard of getting old – you forget what it's like to have energy enough to be out late at night and still get up early in the morning."

Murdoch almost choked on the piece of beefsteak he was eating as the Major continued.

"I met your future daughter-in-law last night, by the way – bumped into the two of them on their way to the theater. Lovely girl; you must be pleased." He gave the waiter a word of thanks as his coffee was poured. "Is your other son here as well?" he went on. "I forgot to ask his brother last night. Little Johnny, I remember him as, although I suppose you'll call him John now?"

"John is in Mexico," Murdoch managed to say.

"Ah, yes, your wife is from Mexico, isn't she? And I've been so remiss I never even asked you about her last night,"

"John's mother died several years ago," Murdoch once again offered the barest of facts.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Lovely lady, she made me so welcome that time I visited your ranch," Major Kendal condoled.

Murdoch simply nodded an acknowledgment and kept eating his breakfast, or pretended to. Details about Maria and Johnny were something he couldn't give – tried not to dwell on. Tried to convince himself didn't matter any more. Never succeeded.

But Kendal had given him something else to think about right now. Scott was in Chicago! He was closer to his son at this moment than he had been for nineteen years. Murdoch's thoughts whirled. Could he find him? Should he try to see him? Abruptly he stood up.

"Excuse me, Major, must be getting along. Going to church service," he made the first excuse that came to mind and left the dining room, barely hearing the Major's reply. Small talk over breakfast had become an impossibility.

Murdoch left the hotel and started walking in no particular direction. The walking was merely an accompaniment to his thoughts. Thoughts of his elder son, who he'd only seen once in his life. Thoughts of all the letters he had written to his son through the years, the gifts he had sent to Boston on Scott's birthday and at Christmas. Gifts never acknowledged, letters never answered. The final letter, sent not to a boy under his grandfather's guardianship but to a man grown, an army officer, just after the lifting of the siege of Vicksburg. He knew Scott's unit had been at Vicksburg and he sent the letter care of the 83rd. When that letter brought no answer, he stopped writing. He tried to reconcile himself to the fact that his son wanted no contact with him and told himself that he had succeeded. But he still read the Boston newspapers.

Now, knowing Scott was so close, he felt an undeniable yearning to see his son. Just a glimpse. Surely that was not too much for a father to ask – just to be able to picture his son's face. He could find Scott, he was sure. He would be staying at one of the good hotels – Briggs' or the Sherman House or the Tremont. But should he? One part of his mind said no, be sensible, don't risk stirring up feelings for someone you don't know and never will. But the voice of sense was being overridden, nay, shouted down, by a need so strong he was astonished by its intensity. It was not a case of could, or should – it was a case of had to.

The beautiful façade of St James' Cathedral loomed in front of him. He wondered what had led his footsteps here – his subconscious, he supposed, following up his words to Major Kendal earlier. Well, he would keep himself from a lie. He would attend the service, then start his hunt for his son, perhaps with God's blessing. He joined the file of people entering the cathedral.

The service eased him. He felt his taut nerves relaxing as the peace of the place and of the Lord's day seeped through his spirit. At the invitation to take communion, Murdoch rose and moved forward with the other worshippers. As he walked up the aisle, he found himself behind a party of three: an old man and a young couple. The young woman was on the older man's arm but seemed rather to be supporting him than the other way around. The young man stayed protectively close behind them both. As they knelt at the altar rail, Murdoch was beside the young man.

After the service, people stood outside the cathedral greeting one another and chatting. Murdoch made his way through the crowd but it was slow going.

"… so nice to see you again, Miss Dennison and delighted to meet you, Mr Garrett." The words caught Murdoch's ear and his head jerked up. An elderly lady was speaking to the party he'd noticed earlier. He stared at the young couple; stared at the young man. A young man with hair the colour of Catherine's. A young man who, as the conversation continued, answered to the name of Scott Garrett.

Murdoch stood back a little way, just watching. This wasn't the place to barge up with an introduction. He observed the young man, hearing his cultured way of speaking and noticing his fashionable clothing, the finely cut jacket and ruffled shirt. Noticed, too, the people his son was with, people evidently from the uppermost echelon of Boston society. Scott was at ease with them, belonged in their world. Their world, not Murdoch Lancer's.

What connection could a young Boston gentleman feel with a California rancher? Perhaps it hadn't been resentment and rejection that had kept Scott from answering his father's letters. Perhaps it was a simple lack of interest in a place and a person so far from his way of life.

Scott and his companions – his fiancée and her father, Murdoch supposed – moved off, climbing into a cab that had pulled up. Murdoch watched them go. He didn't go after them – he never would. He had had the glimpse of his son that he had asked for; he would make that be enough.

* * *

Scott left the Tremont House after lunch – for a walk along the lake, he told Julie and her father. Mr Dennison was resting, tired out even from the simple effort of attending church that morning. Scott was glad they were returning to Boston tomorrow.

Returning tomorrow: that meant that if he was going to see his father, it had to be this afternoon. He had tossed and turned all night, telling himself to be sensible. Why try to see a man who didn't want to see him? Who had no interest in him whatsoever – who most likely had forgotten he existed. But then another side of sense would assert itself. Could the man be so bad? Surely he wouldn't resent a simple "How do you do, sir?"

By morning he had made up his mind. He would meet Murdoch Lancer. He didn't expect any sort of emotional reunion; that wasn't what he was after. Just an introduction, a civil greeting, so that at least he wouldn't feel a fool when someone talked about the father he'd never laid eyes on. And, he admitted, so that at least he had a father in his life, if it was only by a few words, a handshake – a face to picture in his mind. A quick query at the hotel desk before breakfast had given him the information he needed: the Cattlemen's Convention was being held at the Massasoit House. That was his real destination now, on this Sunday afternoon walk.

* * *

Murdoch didn't go back to the Massasoit immediately. He couldn't face the bombardment of small talk, serious talk and business negotiations amongst a crowd of cattlemen just yet. He spent the next few hours strolling along by the lake, alone with his thoughts. Alone. It was mid-afternoon when he returned to the hotel.

Seating himself on a sofa in the hotel lobby, he ordered a drink, sipping it gratefully as he braced himself for a return to the world of the cattle trade. A copy of the Chicago Tribune lay on the table in front of him. He felt little interest in the news of the day but glanced through the paper absently. Then a headline caught his eye: Brutal Murder in California. With a feeling of dread he read the article:

'Citizens of the State of California stand appalled by the murder of well-known rancher Joseph Carbajal, a cousin of the famed Mexican freedom fighter José Carbajal, by a person or persons unknown.'

Joe Carbajal dead!

"Person or persons unknown" – so even the press is too scared of Day Pardee to print his name, thought Murdoch grimly. He read on, but the article told him little more. Joe and two of his vaqueros had been found dead on the road to Joe's ranch, their bodies riddled with bullets.

He had to get back to California and quickly. His place wasn't here, socializing at a cattlemen's convention. What had he been thinking of, gallivanting around the country while Lancer was under threat from the worst kind of outlaws. His expression thunderous with anger at himself, he rose and strode across the hotel lobby, bounding up the staircase to his room to pack. It was too late to leave today but he would be on the first train west tomorrow morning.

* * *

Scott Garrett Lancer wasn't a man prone to nerves but as he approached the Massasoit House, he found himself hesitating and the jumping in his stomach could only in honesty be called nervousness. His father might well be in that building. He'd faced Confederate cannon, enemy soldiers, even gunfighters in the past, but no amount of battle experience was going to be of use here and he didn't know if social etiquette would be of much help either. What do you say to someone who has ignored you for twenty-four years? Well, he'd get no answers standing on the steps. Bracing himself, he went inside.

"I'm looking for Mr Murdoch Lancer," he asked the clerk at the desk. "Do you happen to know if he's in the hotel?"

"Why, yes, that's Mr Lancer over there," the clerk pointed to where a man sat alone on a sofa at the far end of the hotel lobby, absorbed in a newspaper. A giant of a man, was Scott's first thought. For a moment he simply looked, then he drew a deep breath and was about to move in the direction of Murdoch Lancer when the man flung down the newspaper and stood up.

Scott stared. He had seldom seen such forbidding grimness as he saw on the face of the man he had come here to meet. He watched as the man – his father – strode across the lobby to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time and disappearing around the bend of the stairs.

Scott turned and left the hotel. That grim-faced giant was not a man who would welcome a greeting from a forgotten son. He had had a glimpse of his father; that would have to be enough.

* * *

Chicago's railway station was one of the busiest in the country, it was said, and Murdoch Lancer could well believe it as he worked his way through the crowds to board the westbound train the next morning. He settled into a seat and gazed through the window at the hustle and bustle in the few minutes before the train left.

Carriages pulled up in a seemingly endless stream, disgorging passengers who hurried into the station in the universal railroad fear of missing their train. One group caught Murdoch's eye as, in contrast with most of the scurrying crowd, they moved slowly along the platform. With a sharp intake of breath he sat up straight, craning his neck out of the train window to see. Yes, it was Scott, with his two companions of the previous day. Just as yesterday, it was Scott, an elegant Eastern gentleman in the company of two members of the finest Boston society.

The whistle sounded and Murdoch's train began to move.

His last glimpse was of his son boarding an eastbound train.

* * *

Scott settled into the seat beside Julie. Looking through the window, he saw a train pull out of the station, westbound, and wondered idly how far west that particular train was going. It was possible to go all the way to California by train now, with the Transcontinental Railroad, but that's something he was unlikely ever to do. Once or twice he'd thought of simply making the trip even if uninvited, but not now.

Yet he found himself thinking: what if Murdoch Lancer ever did ask him to visit – would he go? Yes. His own answer surprised him but yes, Murdoch Lancer was his father and for that reason alone, if ever he was invited to California he would go. Then he laughed at his thoughts. It was an academic question.

Remembering the grim, hard-faced man he'd seen in that brief glimpse, Scott doubted that invitation would ever come.


End file.
